The End of the Line
by Yet Another Pseudonym
Summary: Lysandra Hawke helps the mages, and faces exile.  At least she'll have a little company.  Farewell, Kirkwall!  And a thank you to the Traveling Wilburys for both a title and, well, a little feeling.
1. Waiting

He'd hoped never again to see the inside of the Templar Hall, but Kirkwall would always have its way with him. Not that one could see much of the hall from the tiny room in which the Templars had sequestered them. He'd take the room over the Knight-Commander's office any day. He supposed he should be grateful that he and Andra hadn't been marched up the steps of a true gallows to matching nooses. The abomination was making it impossible to feel any gratitude, however, as he paced the perimeter. Perhaps it was premature to feel any sort of gratitude at all, for the noose could still very well be forthcoming, depending upon the Knight-Captain's whim. No matter what Andra had done to help the Templars, it likely hadn't been enough to sway Cullen.

"Sit down, Anders! Maker's breath, you're worse than a caged mabari!" Bethany said.

"Blighted Templars!" The abomination muttered something under his breath that sounded vaguely like, "Tranquil."

"Yes, Anders, they're going to make us all Tranquil," Andra said. The warmth of her hand suffused him and drove his worst thoughts away . "All of us, me included."

"Fine, laugh at me, Hawke," the abomination said. "_You_ may not have anything to fear, but a mage has more to lose. The worst the Templars can offer you is death."

"If you insist." She broke out into titters.

"You're not making things better, Lyssie," Bethany said.

"If I have to fight them, my blades are ready. Rest easy, Anders, the Champion of Kirkwall will save you!" The tittering turned into gasping laughter. "Oh, Maker… I really did it this time, didn't I?"

He slipped his hand out of her grasp and slid his arm around her waist before she could protest. Then again, she'd never been one for protesting when laughter took her. _Whatever it was you did, I helped you. What sort of fool does that make me?_ Yet she hadn't been the one to _do_ anything—that had been up to the now-twitchy abomination, the possessed First Enchanter, and the crazed Knight-Commander. Kirkwall itself had been the cauldron that had contained their bubbling stew of madness. He'd only been amazed that Andra had kept the lid on the damned thing for so long before the abomination's explosion had sent the cover sky high, and scalded them all with unholy spew.

"You did what was right, sis," Bethany said.

That quieted her shaking in his arms and the queasiness in his stomach.

"It would have been better if you'd killed me, Hawke."

The abomination stopped right in front of them, and he fought to keep the lyrium beneath his skin from flaring. Too close. Far too close. Just one little punch, and some squeezing, and he'd never again have to listen to the pathetic mage's whining. He suppressed a bitter laugh. _Sebastian was more of a coward than even I have been._ All it would have taken was one arrow, a small one, shot from that magnificent bow, and at least this waiting would have been bearable. Yet the fool Prince had left his deed to the one person who would never carry it out: Andra was not one to turn on those she called friend, even if they seemed to delight in betraying her. Perhaps that was one of the reasons he'd betrayed himself in aiding the mages; her unflinching loyalty was what he loved most in her. He may well have loved her less had she killed the abomination, an irony that irked him more than the Sword of Mercy lying at his feet.

"Yes, that would make everything much easier, wouldn't it, mage?" Finally that laugh escaped. "There would be no uncertainty, no suffering for _you_, while the rest of us live with what you've done."

"Can they even make you Tranquil, Anders?" Andra asked. "What would that do to Justice? Wouldn't he keep your memories alive?"

"I… I've never thought about it," the abomination said.

"No, you've never _thought_ about anything, have you? Not the least bit about the consequences of your actions." Andra shot him a look, but the faint twitching of her lips gave lie to its sternness.

Fortunately, the Templars beyond chose that moment to slam the door open, and they shoved the what remained of Andra's lunatic companions inside. He still marveled at the change in their attitude in the bare hour since they'd fallen to their knees before his baffled Champion. Templar loyalty and admiration only extended so far, it seemed.

He'd never seen Aveline strain so hard to smile, even the bitter line that narrowed her lips. "Well, Hawke, it looks like this is the last time you'll drag me along into your madness."

"We're no longer friends?" No jokes from his Andra this time, just a sharp, stricken tone that stabbed him deep. "You think you could have told me _before_ you came along."

"Did I say that? No, the Templars want you gone, today if they can find a ship. Me, well, they need me, they said. Who else would make a proper Guard Captain?"

"Who else, indeed?" Andra said, and her own smile seemed almost genuine.

"Gone? Gone to where?" Bethany asked.

The Templar grunted. "Out!"

"Then we're free to go?" the abomination asked. A strange note of hope contaminated the otherwise delicious fear in his voice.

"So the Knight-Capt—Commander orders. He says you can visit the Champion one at a time if you must. Champion, you're with me, and you as well, elf."

It seemed that the Templar distinction between the Champion and her lover had finally evaporated.

"That's a fine thank-you," Varric said. "They've forgotten all the favors you've done for them, Hawke."

"Would you prefer to hang, dwarf?" the Templar asked. "Only the Champion's 'favors' saved you all."

"No, no. Point taken. I'll see you later, Hawke."

"Just shut up, Varric," Andra muttered to herself.

"We have our eyes on _you_, mage," the Templar said, nodding at the abomination. Yet he studiously ignored the blood mage.

"I need to speak with Hawke," the abomination said. "Might I accompany her?"

Clearly, the sniveling coward feared to be alone with Templars so near, a surprisingly rational fear from an unstable abomination. Who else did the mage have left to trust, beyond the blood mage and the dwarf? And neither had the skill Andra did to keep the Templars at bay. The Templar shook his head and gestured to Andra. _Out._ Out into _what_, he didn't know, but at least he could breathe again when her arm encircled his waist.

"Come here, Blondie," the dwarf said just before they passed out of earshot.


	2. The Monolith That Wasn't

"Pack," the Templar said as he shoved the door to Hawke's estate open. "I'll wait out here."

"Not much for words, are you?" She tried to force a smile, but it, like her feigned levity, fell flat.

"Messere, I'm allowing you what leeway I can. The Knight-Cap—Commander's orders were to keep you under personal guard, but I'm not one to spy on a woman and her underthings in her private home."

"Thank you," he said. "Andra surely appreciates your discretion."

"I… Yes. Thank you."

"The Knig—former Knight-Commander wasn't a popular woman even a few years ago, but after she took a turn for the worse, well… Some of us were rooting for you and those mages."

"Then I really should thank you for keeping my sister and all the other innocents safe from that lunatic."

The Templar lifted his face shield and nodded. Gruff as his voice was, the man seemed barely a year or two older than Andra, and his face was almost elven-lean. He smiled at both of them and extended a hand which she took with only slight hesitation.

"The apostate, the one who destroyed the Chantry," the man's voice fell to a near whisper, "my mate let him run. You may not see him again."

"I thought you Templars were out for blood," she said. "Especially Chantry-destroying blood."

"Begging your pardon, messere, but some of us still hold to honor. There's no honor in offing someone on secret orders."

"You were going to kill him?" She blanched.

"Andra, did you think the Templars would just let him go after he destroyed the Chantry?" He hadn't thought her that naïve.

"I…" She swallowed and her voice came thick. "No, I just supposed the new Knight-Commander was merciful. He always seemed _rational_, at the very least."

"If messere doesn't mind me speaking out of turn, the new Knight-Commander only _seems_ rational when one views the alternative."

Andra's laugh came bitter. "I thought the First Enchanter was sane until that _thing_ came bursting out him. I'm not such a good judge of character, am I? You know something, Templar, you remind me of Ser Thrask."

"He was a good man, that Ser Thrask was, until he took up with the blood mage. Kirkwall's an evil place, messere; something's rotten here and it dirties everything it touches. I almost envy you your exile."

"Then it shouldn't come as much of a surprise that we were planning to leave," he said.

"The Champion was to leave her city?"

"And go home," Andra said. "I miss Ferelden, even more when I'm playing shepherd between a possessed Templar and an abomination of a First Enchanter."

"I wonder what the city will do without you, messere. If the former Knight-Commander had allowed the selection of a viscount," the man raised an eyebrow as he eyed Andra, "none of this would have happened."

"Me? You thought _I_ should be viscount?"

"The Champion acts for the benefit of her city, messere."

"Please, I'm no more a diplomat than I am a mage."

"A blade is more effective than diplomacy, Champion." A hint of levity in a Templar?

Andra snorted.

"The city is better off for your apostate friend, messere. Her Grace was aware of _problems_ within our ranks, and did nothing to quell dissent. I wasn't the only one who sought her aid."

"Well, I'm sure Anders would be utterly mortified to hear such praise from one of you, but…"

"Messere seems to have some strange impressions of the Order. Templars are not all of one mind."

"Evidently not," he said. They'd killed enough of the kidnapping conspirators to disavow him of that notion.

"I suppose you're all human," she said.

"Only human. Not an elf among them."

The Templar at least had the good grace to look away. "Go, get ready. I'll let your company in as they arrive. Thank you, Champion."


	3. Anders

The abomination stalked the landing upstairs, tracing his steps back and forth as the little dwarf, Bodahn rattled on about how pleased he was to see the Mistress again, and how he'd taken the extreme liberty of drawing a bath for surely the Mistress could use not only a little relaxation, but a cleansing as well, and while she was on the way up to indulge, perhaps she could see to her company before she saw fit to inform him of all that had happened. He watched the mage pace as the dwarf spoke, and the urge to slam his fist through the abomination's chest almost took him over. _Almost. If the Templars hadn't seen fit to spare him, and Andra hadn't…_ He swallowed as Andra gave the dwarf a smile even tinier than he was. The abomination traced a rut into the floor as Andra led him up the stairs, her warm hand in his.

"Anders," she said. "You need to run!"

"Running won't help me now, Hawke. I have to go with you!"

"With us? That's not up to me."

"No! Absolutely not!" The abomination flinched from his vehemence, his narrow lips twisted. "Andra, if you…"

"Well, it's clear, then," she said, her smile faint. "No, I'm sorry, Anders."

"Mages all across Thedas still suffer under the lash of Chantry oppression. I need your help to lead them to freedom; I can't do it on my own. Please, Hawke, help bring them justice!"

"Anders, no! You'd think two 'noes' would be enough to deter you, but no, no, no, no! A thousand times no!"

"A revolution needs more than just a spark, Hawke. It takes strategy and skill and…"

"Maker's breath, no! Your revolution isn't mine. Look at what the last one got me." She snorted. "I'm just lucky we're all still alive."

"You're a hypocrite! Your support of mages…"

"Look, Anders, I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask for you to give us a light show wrought with the Grand Cleric's blood, and I didn't sign up to destroy every last Templar in Thedas."

"You don't truly support freedom for mages? I thought when you moved to defend us against Meredith that you'd finally seen sense, but you're as much of a hypocrite as the beast you bed!"

"Andra spares your life and fights with you to defend your precious mages, and the best you have to offer is condemnation? I suppose the words, 'Thank you,' aren't in your vocabulary."

"You haven't tamed him at all, have you, Hawke?"

"Anders…" Her voice was more a growl.

A _warning_ growl, echoed by the mabari that suddenly occupied the space between them. Boy was nothing, if not prompt.

"Now I see your true colors, Hawke. You're as much an enslaver as the blighted Templars!"

"This is that damned Justice speaking again, isn't it? Where's Anders in there?"

"_Justice_ makes everything clear. Crystal clear." Faint cracks of blue seemed to split the mage's skin.

She'd reached for her daggers when the dog bristled, and the hand she'd dropped fell limp at his side. He hesitated in reaching for his own sword, no matter how much his thudding heart and his mind both howled at him to take it in hand. Boy lunged at the mage with a short bark, and as quickly as the glowing cracks had appeared, they vanished. The mabari fell back, but stood ready, his eyes narrowed, his muzzle drawn tight over his teeth.

"Oh, Andraste," the mage said, his face white.

"I'm not your enemy, Anders," Andra said, and let her hands fall from her twin hilts.

"I never thought you'd betray me, Hawke."

"Betray _you_?" This time he did reach for his sword, though Andra clutched at his arm. "Betray a murderer?"

"When you fought for those mages, for the first time I thought we had hope, but I see you're nothing more than the typical ignorant Thedas fools who blindly worship at the Chantry's feet."

"Is that what you really think, Anders? Seven years of friendship isn't enough for you? It isn't enough that I risked open war with Starkhaven for your sorry hide or that I protected the Circle from Meredith? Instead, you'd wish me to run headfirst into a stupid war that's only important in your imagination, and you threaten me when I say no."

"I see," the abomination said. "I overestimated you, Hawke. I thought you fought for what was right, and not for oppression."

"Flames, you're an idiot! I fought because you dragged me into it. I didn't want you to destroy the Chantry or kill the Grand Cleric, and I certainly didn't wish to choose between two different brands of crazy. _You_ forced that choice, not me."

"If you don't fight oppression, you endorse it." How smug the abomination looked, his narrow nose wrinkled in disgust!

"You really are a fool," he said. "We waste our time talking to this _thing_, Andra."

"You're right," she said. "Nothing will ever be enough for that damned spirit."

"I'd suggest you _go_. Now," he said, and Boy backed him up with a low rumble.

"Still a ravening beast," the abomination said. "Hawke hasn't changed you one little bit."

"He fought _with_ you, Anders. Against the Templars. For _mages_, not against them. Don't you _dare_ call him a beast!"

"That's about the thanks I was expecting," he said, and gave her a tight smile. Her hand sought his and quieted his growing urge to strike the mage.

"He didn't fight 'with me for mages.' He fought for _you_."

"Does it matter _why_ any of us did anything?" Andra said. "Either way, we all fought for the same goal, and you still condemn Fenris!"

"Speak, Hawke," the mage said, his tone almost falsely indulgent. "What do you believe, and if you support oppression, why did you fight?"

"You want to know what I think of mages and the Chantry and the Circle? _I don't know_. I fought because Meredith was going to kill innocents in retaliation for something that had _nothing_ to do with them. I did it for Beth and for you, because you're my friend. At least, I thought you were."

"That isn't an opinion, Hawke. Everyone has thoughts, and I've never known you to dodge."

He couldn't help but crack a smile as Andra muttered, "Sod off," under her breath. He'd learned quickly enough that she wasn't set in stone when it came to all the mage nonsense, and that she judged them as individuals the same way she'd judged individual Templars. Perhaps her views weren't ideal, but they were reasonable, and she'd seemed to have sense enough that it hadn't been much of a strain for him to accept where they differed. Mages, especially abominations, didn't seem to have the same kind of flexibility.

"I should have known you'd favor the Chantry," the abomination said. "The way you sold out that lad, Feynriel, and those apostates should have told me that long ago."

"Are you mad? Completely? You'd trust the Dalish with a young mage when Merrill took up blood magic? He needed to learn to _resist_ possession, not give in to it! Look at Marethari, and how well _she_ resisted. And you'd say the _Dalish_ were better than the Circle?"

"You should have just killed me, Hawke, if you hate everything I stand for."

"That's it, isn't it? Everything's cast in black and white for you, even when the truth is purple or green or blue. Andraste's arse, Anders! There's more than one way of looking at things!"

"You should have killed me, since you've signed my death warrant anyway."

"How do you figure that?" he asked. Whatever the mage was going to tell him likely wouldn't even be worth the effort of uttering those few words.

"A lone mage can't survive without help, let alone a _hunted_ mage. That Templar might have let me slip away, but the rest surely won't."

"Which is why you have to _run_!" Andra said. "Maker's breath, Anders, get out of here and live safe! Go to ground, heal others if you must, but _live_. Live free and appreciate the gift I tried to give you, even if you don't want it!"

"What I wanted was a friend; someone who had faith in me. You don't, Hawke." The blood mage had once claimed he had "puppy dog eyes," but his eyes had nothing on the abomination's.

"You want more than that," he said, "far more than that."

"No more than you ever wanted, and you were stupid enough to let her go."

"That's none of your business, mage!"

"Andraste's arse," Andra muttered. "Just go, Anders. Maker watch over you."

"If we must part as enemies, Hawke…"

"You think we're enemies because I'm _mad_ at you? Because I don't agree with you, and I don't want the same things from you that you wish of me?"

"You… No, never mind. I'll just…"

"I suggest you don't leave by the front door, abomination," he said. "The Templars only have so much forbearance. Speaking of such things, how did you get in here?"

The abomination sighed and those "puppy dog eyes" turned truly heartrending for any who might have a heart to be rent. He enjoyed the mage's heartbreak for what it was. "I had… assistance."

"Who from?" Andra asked.

"Varric, of course."

"The damned dwarf has a way in here? Flames! I should have upgraded those traps years ago." She muttered black curses under her breath.

"Well, at least you have another target for your wrath," the mage said.

_Her_ wrath? He felt the lyrium flare against his control and only slowly calmed himself as Andra burst out laughing. She rummaged around inside her pack as he inhaled. Deeply.

"Take this key, Anders," she said. "I won't be needing it anymore, and you could use a better way out than whatever Varric showed you. This goes to…"

"The cellar. Yes, I know. You've been a good friend until now."

"Until… What do you mean, 'until?'" She sputtered incoherently.

The abomination took a cautious step forward, eying the mabari. Then a second and a third, until the mage hovered over Andra, a beatific smile ruining the otherwise warming sadness in his eyes. He clutched at his Andra's hand as the mage cupped her cheek and bent down to kiss her forehead. She said nothing as his heart split in two; she should have been protesting, slapping, screaming, anything besides standing there unmoving.

"I wish I'd known you before… Justice." The abomination took the key from her trembling hand.

"Anders," she said, "get a cat. A kitten. Ten of them."

The abomination's smile turned sardonic. "I'll keep that in mind."

When the mage was gone, he dropped her hand and sagged against the balustrade. He dared not meet her eyes as she leaned against him. Did she have to…

"Fenris?"

"You had to let him _touch_ you."

"I didn't…" She looked away.

"You had _thoughts_ about him, didn't you?"

"Maker's breath, what are you on about?" A flash of fire, the flash that should have driven the mage's hand back. "If you must know, I'm planning on hugging Bodahn goodbye. Is that going to bother you as well?"

"If he kisses you, yes."

"A set of _possessed_ lips kissing me as a father might causes you this much distress? Possessed lips that, Maker willing, I'll never see or feel again? You're being ridiculous!"

"Andra…"

"Fenris." Soft, breathy. Irresistible, as, ultimately, she was.

He forced himself to take in that wild smile of hers. He hadn't noticed until then how her lids sagged, or how the tiny lines her mother's death had etched at the corners of her eyes had deepened to chasms. Finally the ache settled into his arms and his heart, a mirror of hers.

"I'm tired," she said.

"Of?"

"Everything. At least it's almost over."

"Bodahn," he called. "Keep everyone else away for an hour or two."

She raised an eyebrow.

"That bath the dwarf drew and a short nap. Surely our Templar friend will allow us that."


	4. Varric

She was warm against him, a low-burning flame against his chest. Her hair tickled his nose as he inhaled and his arm rose and fell with the rhythm of her breath. He'd curled around her, hoping to sleep away some of the twisting in his gut. At first he'd thought it was going to work, the slickness of her silk tunic a whisper against him, but even as she'd drifted off, something had kept him from slipping under. Had it been the abomination and his confession? Perhaps it was the Templar outside, waiting. Just waiting. The thought of mages triumphant. That he'd _helped_ them. Whatever it was, he tried to focus on her gentle inhalations, and the dwindling dampness of her hair. He closed his eyes and waited for her to wake, or so he thought.

"You know, Broody, most people wait to do that kind of thing until their guard is gone."

Andra grumbled as he flipped over, but her breathing steadied quickly.

"If you wish to live, dwarf, you may want to wait outside."

"I didn't think you were the threatening type, Broody."

He cracked a smile. "I'm not the one to worry about. If Andra wakes, you'll be wearing Bianca as a necklace. _If_ she's feeling charitable."

The dwarf gave him a wry smile, one that was truly unattractive at eye-level. "Do me a favor, Broody?" At least the man had enough sense to keep his voice down.

"Yes, dwarf?" The man's evasiveness would have long since driven Andra to stroking her knife.

"Convince Hawke to help me."

"To do what?"

"Fen…" she mumbled and snuggled up to him. Her breath came hot between his shoulder blades, and a silk-clad arm slipped across his waist. Were it not for the dwarf's leering, he'd have let it wander.

"No, Hawke, to do that kind of thing, you're supposed to be _unclothed_." Count on the dwarf never to take advice.

He didn't notice the moment realization hit her, for her hand slid up and down his body, from his waistband to his collarbone and back again. She mumbled something that sounded vaguely like, "I love you," though her voice was sleep-blurred, and he faced the wrong direction to determine exactly what she'd said. She hadn't uttered such words when fully aware since he'd left her stranded, but he'd heard Danarius say once that sleepers only spoke truth. A finger unconsciously traced the marking that circled his belly, and with a start he realized just how _exact_ she was; the burning that remained in the wake of her tracery mirrored the lingering electricity he'd always felt in her touch. He'd never before imagined that anyone would wish to know him so well, even half-unaware. _I was a fool to fear the abomin…_

"You haven't called me 'Hawke' in years," she said, her voice still slurred. "Not since... Maker!"

She sat bolt upright and he had only a moment to flip toward her before the curses flowed from her in a torrent. She stopped finally when her breath gave out and she gasped, leaning against the headboard.

"Nice to see you too, Hawke, though you're a little overdressed for the occasion. Broody seems to be a bit more appropriate."

"What? How did you get in here?"

"Not by the front door. Bianca's a little upset; that narrow passage into your cellar scraped her top layer of lacquer."

"The Maker hates me," she muttered. "Why didn't you kick him out, Fenris?"

"Don't bring me into this. The dwarf already tried."

"Is there something you want, Varric?" The acid in her tone scorched him, and should have eaten the dwarf to the bone.

"I was just telling Broody here…"

"That _word_, Varric!"

"Maker's breath, Hawke, you're about to leave. You're really going to follow through when I'm…"

"Dear Andraste! Fine, speak, but be quick about it."

"I need your help. If you can just convince your Templar admirer out there to spare an hour or two…"

"No." He'd never heard her so blunt with the little man.

"You're not even going to listen?"

"To what? You never say what you mean, anyway, and whatever it is, it's too late. The Templars want us gone, and I'm not going to give them any more cause to complain. Or kill me, for that matter."

"It's about the house…"

"Varric, no."

"I just need you to help me…"

"My debt to you ended when I helped you deal with Bartrand. That's it. Over. Done. No more."

"I thought we were friends, Hawke."

He wasn't so sure he wanted to hear her answer, and much as he hated to leave her alone in bed after he'd left her half-asleep years before, he drew the covers back.

"Broody, I thought you were smarter than that!"

"What, dwarf?"

"You do know you're supposed to remove your pants before you do certain things, don't you? I figured you must, because Hawke's usually got a silly grin on her face."

"I wasn't aware that _sleeping_ was impossible in pants."

He slipped on his tunic and belted it as Andra clutched at the blankets, her fingers white. As he buckled, he felt the scorching of her glare in the middle of his back even as he forced himself to stare at the door.

"That's it, Varric! Out!" The dwarf dodged the pillow that flew past, and it flopped against the doorframe.

"A fine farewell from Lysandra Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall." A low _grinding_ behind him, the clash of tooth on tooth, as the dwarf's laugh came rich and full. "Forcing her foes to flee with her lethally flung Fluffy Pillow of Doom. Care to save me, Broody?"

"I'd advise you to go, dwarf, before the pillow becomes a knife."

"Well, I guess it was nice knowing you, Broody."

"You've made my time in Kirkwall rather _entertaining_, dwarf."

"'Entertaining?' Dear Maker." The grinding stopped, fortunately, when she spoke. It had started to creep into the base of his spine in a most unpleasant fashion.

"Since you haven't killed me yet, Hawke, I'm assuming we're friends."

"I wouldn't push it, dwarf," he said.

Andra sighed. "Yes, of course." The words didn't sound particularly friendly, but the dwarf relaxed and allowed his full smile to bloom.

"Good to know. Since we're friends, I have a favor to ask…"

"No! No! No! You've had plenty of opportunity to ask me before now, but you never said a thing."

"I wanted to buy you a pint, Hawke. Is that such a crime?"

"I don't enjoy 'pints,' especially not full of the swill they serve at the Hanged Man. You have a lot more coin than I do, Varric. Hire someone."

The dwarf let out a long sigh of his own. "I suppose I'll have to. Well, at least you'll leave me with many a splendid tale, Champion."

"Perhaps you could do me a favor, seeing what dear 'friends' we are," she said. "Tell Merrill I have something for her before I leave."

"Of course, Hawke. Daisy's relic should return to Dalish hands."

"You _wanted_ her to build her death-mirror?" As seemed to be more and more common lately, Andra gave voice to his own thoughts.

"I want Daisy to be happy. Poor girl's been through a lot at your hands, and at the hands of her clan. She needs something to cheer her up."

The blood mage had seemed inordinately cheerful to his own eyes, especially after Andra had helped her slaughter said clan. Still, he wasn't about to ruin his last few moments with the dwarf by airing such thoughts.

"At _my_… Never mind. It's been, er, _interesting_, Varric."

The dwarf extended a hand and waited, but Andra made no move to get out of bed. He bent over and took the little man's hand as his stomach twinged. _Don't tell me I'm going to miss the dwarf!_ The man's hand enveloped his and warmed it. A firm pump and the twinge became an ache.

"I'll miss you, dwarf."

"You too, Broody."

"Andra," he said.

"Oh, Maker, no!"

He gave her what the blood mage had once described as "puppy dog eyes."

"Fine," she muttered and slid out of bed as fully clothed as when she'd gotten in, much to his personal distress.

A quick pump, and a sardonic grin from the dwarf.

"No stories," Andra said. "I don't want anyone knowing…"

"Oh, no _true_ stories," the dwarf said. "I'll miss you, Hawke. Maker watch over you."

She nodded, though her shoulders rode up close to her ears. She only relaxed when the dwarf waddled out of the room.

"You know he'll be telling an endless stream of self-aggrandizing lies about everything we've been through," she said.

"I almost wish I could hear them."

"Really." He nodded and slipped both arms around her as she tried and failed to summon an outraged glare. "I'm just glad we'll be gone before he does more damage."

"You still blame him for what his brother did?"

"I blame him for giving me and Beth false hope, for corralling me into helping him deliver 'justice' to said brother, then turning on me, and then badgering…"

"If it hadn't been for that 'false hope,' would you have taken Anso's job?"

"Well, Mother and Beth _did_ have to eat, and I don't have much pride when I'm hungry." At least that wicked smile had returned.

She gasped when he nibbled on her chin and worked his way up to her ear. "You give the dwarf no credit for introducing us?"

"_Athenril_ offered me the job. Last I checked, she was an elf."

"You wouldn't have needed my help without the dwarf's intervention."

"You're just trying to make me to like him, aren't you? It doesn't matter anymore."

"You really regret his involvement with you?"

A deep sigh, and her lips brushed his. "I… No, I suppose not. If it hadn't been for your company in the Deep Roads, I…"

"Would have fallen for the abomination? The dwarf was responsible for _that_ introduction."

"Not Anders again! Maker's breath!"

"You didn't say no." He cracked a smile though his heart thudded as he waited for the answer.

"Do I have to? I was already half in love with you before we surrendered to Bartrand's oh-so-tender ministrations. The Deep Roads just cemented it."

"So long…" Longer than he'd thought. _Years_ longer, as many years as he'd felt similar stirrings.

"Though, I have to say, Anders knows how to use his lips." She grinned.

He gripped her hips and did his best to make her forget the abomination. He might well have made her forget _packing_ and _leaving_, but for a voice that still scraped his ears and sent foul shivers down his spine.

"Hawke? Varric said you wished to… Creators, I… I'll go!"


	5. Merrill

Andra had to struggle to break his grasp; his fingers had contorted to claws and against his every instinct, they dug deep into the meat of her rear. The lyrium crawled beneath his flesh, just begging for release in a torrent of light. He swallowed as she freed herself and gritted his teeth. He wrenched his arms down to his sides and clenched his eyes shut. _I must have hurt her…_

"It's all right," she said, and her hand sent a delicious shiver down his spine as she stroked his cheek. "It's just Merrill."

"There's nothing 'just' about a blood mage." He opened his eyes to her saucy smile.

"That explains the death grip. Poor Merrill must have fled in a panic."

"She brought this upon herself!"

"Brought what? Your overreaction? I wonder what you'll do when Boy jumps on us mid… well, you know."

"A dog isn't a blood mage, and your dog never killed his family, at least that I'm aware."

"That's what you think."

The blood mage shifted from foot to foot, back and forth, rocking in her own private breeze. She'd folded her arms about herself and cowered next to Bodahn, who chattered at her about mages and Templars and the Mistress and who knew what else. Had the mage wished to say something, likely the dwarf would have allowed it. This silence was a welcome change on the mage's part, and he could only hope that it would continue for the duration of her "visit." Fortunately, the mage had never much appreciated Andra, so the visit would likely be short.

"Merrill," Andra called from the landing. "You didn't have to run off like that! We were just…"

"That's _none_ of her business."

The blood mage didn't look up.

"I had to _touch_ the dwarf for you," she said, her voice low. "The least you can do is tolerate Merrill for a few minutes."

"I've already 'tolerated' the abomination."

"You'll never see her again after this."

"Only because you ask it."

She grinned. Whenever he'd complained in the past about the outcast mage, she'd always seemed to delight in his torment. He waited as she glided down the stairs. She may have been fetching the blood mage, but the sway of her hips was fetching in its own right. Boy whined, leaning against his thigh, and he rubbed the beast's head as she sidled up to the mage.

"Merrill, come with me."

"Hawke, I didn't mean to… You know that I… Oh, Creators, I'm sorry! I should never have…"

"Maker's breath, you're gasping! Really, it's all right. We were just…"

"Andra!" Boy nudged his hip and grunted.

"We weren't doing anything, nor did we intend to. You walked in on nothing."

"I, well, I… I'm probably being terribly rude, aren't I? I still don't understand human customs."

"I _asked _you to come, Merrill. I have something for you. That aroo-thing."

"Ar-roo? Is that a human word?"

It didn't take sharp elven hearing to pick up Andra's sigh. She led the flushed and babbling mage up the stairs. "You know, the aroo-home. The scoopy hammer-scraper thing Master Ilen used and that we risked our lives for." She muttered, "yet again," under her breath.

"I think she means, 'arulin'holm.'" Foul carrion flies crawled down his spine as he pronounced the world.

"You took it from me and you didn't even know what it was called? By the Dread Wolf, Hawke, I thought even a shem like you would have _some _respect for my clan… _my_ heritage!"

"I… Look, I try to get my mouth around the words, but it just doesn't work. If that makes me a shem, well…"

"You'll always be a 'shem' to the so-called 'true' elvhen, Andra."

"Of course," Andra muttered.

"What good does the arulin'holm do me now, when the eluvian is only shards? You _stole_ it from my people when it mattered and now that it doesn't, you want to give it back! Why, Hawke? Is this yet another insult to pile on top of the corpses of my clan?"

"I just… I thought…"

"You think like a shemlen, just like the brutal barbarians who destroyed my heritage—_our_ heritage—and _our _language…"

"Don't count me with _you_," he said.

"You're no different than they were. Generations of you shemlen have been born and died, but none of you have learned…"

"Enough, witch! Your entire clan is dead at _your_ hands, all for your foolish pride."

"I stole nothing, Merrill." Andra's voice was deceptively calm, though he could clearly hear the hurt beneath. But could the blood mage? She'd enough trouble hearing the protests of her people. Her _family_. "Marethari entrusted it to me."

"She had _no right_, just as you have no right to hold it."

"And it's yours now. If you don't want it, I'm not taking it with me. The Templars will have their way with it, and it'll be just another elven artifact paved over by the Chantry. Is that truly what you wish?"

"You destroyed the only wish and the only goal that mattered—to restore my people's past. Now my clan has nothing. _Is_ nothing."

"Merrill… Will you at least take it?"

"Can't you understand that it's nothing more than a mockery of everything I gave up?"

"Fine, do what you will. I just thought you might want to remember…"

"That my clan is dead? That my sacrifice was for _nothing_?"

"That isn't what I meant. I just…"

"You don't know what it means to lose _everything_."

"I don't? Merrill, Marethari loved you like a mother. She was a kind woman. A good woman. Doesn't she deserve to be remembered by the daughter she tried to protect?"

"She was a fool who brought her fate upon herself."

"You'll never make her to see reason, Andra. There's little point in trying."

"I… Maybe."

"The only reason a shem like you could…"

"Maker's breath!" Andra stalked off into the bedroom, leaving him with a leg-leaning mabari and a sullen blood mage.

After several clicks and a long metallic groan that mirrored his own growing distress, the mabari whimpered. Suddenly, the warm patch against his leg vanished and Boy took the blood mage's hand firmly between his teeth.

"You bite? I suppose you're taking your vengeance for your mistress, aren't you? Oh, Creators, look at me speaking to a dog as if he's a halla!"

The mabari tugged at the hand he held captive and cocked his head toward the bedroom. The blood mage followed, silent, her steps hesitant. At least the dog would keep the witch occupied. He followed several steps behind; in all the time he'd spent inside Andra's estate, he'd never once seen where she'd hidden the blood mage's tool. She sat amidst a puzzle's scattering of metal bits and bobbins, scraps of fabric, and two vials of what was likely an unpleasant poison.

"Traps, Andra?"

"Well, I figured the dwarf would go digging. I've already found traces of his idiocy in my journal. And Isabela's."

"Isabela," the blood mage said, her voice choked.

"Better she's forgotten," he said. "A thief is always worthless."

The mage's eyes shot daggers, but she flinched when he refused to look away.

"Anyway, Merrill, here it is. I'm sorry."

The blood mage took the strange-looking implement without a word. She clenched her brows and turned away.

"Maker watch over you, Merrill, and your Creator gods as well. I just wish they'd all done a better job. I wish _I_ had."

The mage whirled on her. "You _dare_ invoke your god and my gods in the same breath?"

"I…"

"I can't throw you out since this is your house, can I? I suppose I'll just throw myself out!"

"I never wanted you to hate me, Merrill. I never wished your clan harm. I…" She choked, and her eyes turned the one color he hated more than any other.

"You've done enough, shem."

He shoved a few parts out of the way and wrapped his arms around her. He hadn't seen hints of that color since she'd spent the rest of the evening weeping after the Sundermount clan had breathed its last. _I didn't… I couldn't… Maker, I killed them. All of them. What did they do to deserve the double curse of their Keeper and her First? It makes no sense, Fenris!_

"Nothing but keep this city safe from _your_ madness, mage."

"Fenris, just stop! None of this was… She couldn't have guessed what Marethari would do. No one could. The last thing I wanted was what happened, and I'm sure Merrill feels the same way."

The mage stopped dead in her tracks. "You defended me, Hawke?"

"You're not the only one who's had everything turn upside-down, you know."

"I… suppose that's true. Look at what we just did…"

"And you know what I did to help Anders. Am I an idiot, or what?" This wasn't the kind of laugh that usually lifted his spirits. It sounded far too much like the blood mage's nervous babbling with a faint twist of his own bitterness.

"You're no idiot, Hawke. You just had faith in someone who didn't deserve it. You should have had… No, it's all been said. What do I do with this, Hawke? Throw it away? Burn it? Sylvanwood deserves a better fate than… Oh, Creators, why?" The babbling turned to blubbering, and Andra gave him a tiny smile of apology.

"Merrill," she said, and broke free. "Dear Maker, I'm so sorry…"

Instead of an armful of warm, beautiful woman, he had nothing, while Andra took his role. If there was anything worse than listening to the blood mage weep, it was listening to the blood mage weep while watching his Andra coddle her. No, one thing could be worse: his own arms full of blood mage. Boy panted in his ear, a wet, sopping sound, and he swore he felt a droplet of the beast's slobber dribble down his neck. A whimper followed, but nothing could have prepared him for the wide band of damp rubber that whipped across his nose and cheeks. The trail left behind reeked of copper and old meat and dampened fur with the faintest hint of chewed Templar. Boy cocked his head and blew more dog breath in his direction.

"Yes, thank you. I'd gotten too much of the stink off after my bath."

The dog let out a short series of yips, and if he hadn't known better, he would have sworn Boy was laughing at him.

"Shall we clean up, beast?" He'd never seen so many shards and bits in one place, a true hazard to bare feet.

At least the cleaning—truly, the relocation of shards and vials to the nightstand—kept him occupied, and the clinking drowned out the highest registers of the blood mage's wailing. Boy kept pace with him and nudged him occasionally with a small whine until he finally gave in and patted the dog's velvety muzzle, stink or no. In truth, he'd grown accustomed to the whiff of slobber he caught in the otherwise clean Ferelden scents of Andra's linens, for the remnants still hadn't dried when the blood mage's cries turned to hiccups and her arms finally released Andra.

"What do I do now, Hawke? I can't… What will you do?"

"You're _free_, Merrill. What do you want to do? Nothing's keeping you hostage, no demon whispers, or mirrors, or old obligations."

"I don't know. And you, you're cast off now, and you have to leave everything you love behind. You're not whining about the past, or blubbering like an idiot like I am. How can you be so…"

"It's exciting, isn't it? I have a full life ahead of me with the man I love, and no more obligations to take me away from him." He hadn't heard such enthusiasm from her in months… or years, nor had he ever heard such an easy admission of her feelings. "No Deep Roads, no dwarves, no mirrors, no Templars, nothing to get in the way."

Perhaps there wasn't anything to fear and little enough to mourn. What ties did he truly have to Kirkwall beyond Andra's little circle? The tie that mattered most no longer held him here, and it seemed to have coiled itself tight around her heart. He smiled as he puttered around gathering up her clothes. He made sure not to let the blood mage see his lighter mood; she'd already harassed him enough over the years.

"Just how is that supposed to help me?" The sharpness returned to the blood mage's voice. "I'm not like you, Hawke. I have nobody."

"That's not true! You have that damned dwarf and Aveline cares for you. You have a whole city to find friends in!"

"I'm not charismatic like you, or beautiful, or wise. I can't speak to anyone and charm them into agreeing as you can. I can't even get the right words to come out of my mouth when I speak! I'm not brave and fearless…"

"Is that what you think? Me, fearless? The woman who couldn't talk to her sister for six years because I failed both her and Mother and Carver, and the Maker only knows who else?"

"Your mother?"

"Have you ever met someone so kind and generous that a single stray word of disapproval could cut you to the bone?"

"You're talking about the Keeper!"

"Mother wasn't so different. Just like Marethari, she loved. I know she wouldn't have wanted to see me hurt the way I did, but you remember how I was."

Well, _he_ remembered, though the blood mage never seemed to think of anything besides herself, her damned clan, and the broken mirror. Had she even noticed Andra's grief, or had she been too tied up in tantrums and moaning about the "shem?"

"Marethari wouldn't want to see you suffer, Merrill. She'd want you to remember how she loved you, not the pain of losing her or your clan. Honor her memory and cherish it."

"How would you know so much of the Keeper, Hawke? You barely knew her."

"Maybe I didn't, but she seemed much like Mother. You weren't there when she died, but she told me she didn't want me grieving."

"You'd compare a human mother to the Keeper?"

"Mothers are mothers, Merrill."

The blood mage muttered, "You could be right, Hawke. What do I know?"

"Nothing," he said as he piled several of Andra's dresses on top of the bed. "I'd have thought that was obvious."

"I don't even know what to do. You're going, my clan is destroyed, and the eluvian is no more."

"Good." He was sure the blood mage ignored him even though Andra snorted.

"You know so much of your people and their customs and language. Aren't there elves who would love to learn?" Leave it to the "shem" to speak the obvious. "If you don't want to teach Kirkwall's elves, Thedas is full of cities. Maybe you could even find a new clan."

"What clan would accept me after…"

"…after 'shemlen' wiped out your old clan, and you were left alone, barely alive?"

The blood mage didn't even flinch at the agony in her voice, though he did, and the belt he held clattered to the floor. Perhaps Dalish ears didn't work as well as those of their 'flat-eared' kin. Andra leaned almost absently back against him as he wrapped his arms around her waist and glared at the blood mage over her shoulder.

"You mean lie? To another clan?" One wouldn't think that lying was a difficult concept to grasp.

"Yes, lie, just as you did to us."

Andra stiffened. "Is that what that thing was that you were holding when we first met you? A shard from your cursed mirror?"

"I… I wasn't lying. It wasn't yet time to tell you, and I had no idea whether the spirit's ideas would work."

"A lie of omission," he said.

"You wouldn't need to _completely_ lie, Merrill. You were with three 'shems' when it happened. And you don't need to tell them who attacked first. Dear Andraste…" Her hands gripped at his, and her voice thickened. Drowned. "And you wonder why I'm happy to be leaving."

"You mourn my clan?"

"You seem to think I enjoy killing people. Like you, when you asked me to be your 'insurance.' I know you hate me, but I'm not…"

"Hawke, I never said I hated you!"

"It doesn't matter."

"I'll keep the arulin'holm, and maybe I'll…" the blood mage trailed off.

Andra shook against him. "Did you ever think that asking me to kill you, all for a damned piece of glass, might just be a little…"

"Stupid? Idiotic? Cruel?" he said.

"To start," Andra said. "Cruel was the word I was looking for." He hadn't expected her to agree.

"I thought…"

"I understand what you thought, but isn't Thedas better off with you _alive_? The Dalish, alive? Merrill, you'll never be able to bring back the past, but you can _live_ and help others remember. The dead can't do anything except rot in reproach to our stupidity."

"Elgar'nan, you must think me a fool to tell me to take up the role of Keeper!"

"I look at you and I see so much wasted potential. A young, beautiful, brilliant woman who knows more about history and magic than most scholars, but she's let herself waste away chasing after a demon's promises. Promise me, Merrill, that you'll put down the blood magic. Stop talking to demons. Listen to yourself, not a demon's whispers."

The mage flushed brilliant crimson, though it was a miracle she still had blood enough. "Beautiful? Really?"

Andra nodded and the mage flushed even brighter. He shuddered as he found himself squeezed against Andra by a pair of slender mail-clad arms. Too much strength was in those arms for him to break away, and the mage buried her tattooed face in Andra's breasts. _Doesn't she realize that the mage wants her?_ Or perhaps she did.

"Merrill," she said.

The blood mage stumbled back. "Oh, Creators, what have I done? I… I'll miss you, Hawke."

"Maker watch over you, Merrill. Be safe and be well."

The mage clutched at the arulin'holm and sped off, the tails of her tunic flying behind her. His hand rose at Andra's deep breath, and her sigh escaped into the air before him. He slipped around her, wishing that he'd been able to taste the hint of her breath. In truth, he wanted to see if the sigh had been one of longing, though she'd never shown any interest in women.

"Dear Andraste, have you ever met anyone so perplexing?" She sighed again.

"One."

"Who? Wait, do I want to know the answer?"

"Perplexing isn't always a terrible thing."

"Why would you say Merrill wasn't terrible? Didn't you call her a 'monster?'"

"I wasn't speaking of the witch."

Boy's sudden yip made him jump. He'd forgotten the beast.

"Funny, I thought you might have decided to lighten up. Then again, this is _you_ I'm speaking of." She grinned, a welcome contrast to the pale pink tinge that hadn't yet left her eyes.

"You attract mages, it seems, as a dog attracts fleas."

"You act as if I had a choice. Marethari laid a burden upon me, and the damned dwarf stuck me with Anders."

"The blood mage seemed _flattered_ by your attentions."

"She's just unsure of, well, everything that doesn't involve mirrors."

"You can't truly be that naïve!"

"Are you saying what I think you're saying? _That_ was her attempt at flirtation?"

"Or she's unduly fascinated by human breasts."

She snorted and her hand wound its way through his hair. "Interesting. I didn't know she liked women."

"It's fortunate we're leaving."

"You're jealous? Really? I'm not Isabela."

"Obviously, I'm going to have to keep a watchful eye on you."

"And not for the reasons I'm hoping, I gather?" She glared at him. "You know, I never said a word when Isabela was all over you. Maker, you even played along! You're such a hypocrite!"

"You don't seem happy all of a sudden for all the 'time' we'll have."

"You're impossible!"

"I've been told it's part of my charm."

"Whoever told you that must have been an idiot."

"I did warn you."

"Hm. Elf, check. Escaped slave, check. Borrowed mansion, check. Impossible? No. Hypocrite? No. I've been sold a faulty bill of goods!"

"And it's too late to ask for a refund."

She snickered and her hand resumed its roaming. "I hear Antiva's nice this time of year. Men with bare chests and delicious accents. _Ridiculously handsome_ assassins with pouty lips. What say we stop there first?"


	6. Packing

_**Warning**: This chapter references happenings in "Duet in the Key of Failure," ch. 2, "Leandra."_

"Oh, Maker, I had _that_ much?" Andra glared at the enormous tower of clothing he'd built on the mattress. "Where did I find all this awful tripe?"

"You were quite stunning in several of the dresses as I recall," he said, "before the nobles shooed me away."

"Maker. And you pick _now_ to focus on your flattery."

She toppled the tower seeking something, but he couldn't guess at what until she pulled forth one of the old canvas and cotton dresses she'd worn years before when she'd been counted as yet another Ferelden refugee. This, and its twin she folded into tiny squares and smashed to nothing in a corner of her travel trunk. She shoved her journal in beside her quill and inkwell, then slammed the top shut and latched it with a firm motion.

"Ready?" Her smile reeked of falsity, even as it proclaimed a wild freedom.

"You're not taking anything else?"

He eyed the portrait in the corner, where it loomed, mocking them. How many times had he found her bent over it, soaking it with the endless waters of her agony? He knew little enough of art, but he could only admire the durability of the oils the artist had used. Not a single artful ridge had come loose in two years' worth of tears. He'd never liked the portrait, even though the young woman captured within smiled with her daughter's fire.

"Beth loved that portrait. I'll take it to her once we're done here."

At least it would mock him no longer. "And none of the dresses?"

"Why would I want that foppery?"

"Why wouldn't you? Isn't such a wardrobe every woman's desire?"

She snorted. "You don't know me very well, do you?"

"Surely there's something here that you'd want, something to remember the glory of your early days as Champion."

"I suppose I did _something_ to deserve your mockery."

He pawed through the pile of sumptuous silks and intricate damasks. The occasional flowery brocade slipped under his fingers and velvet tickled his palms as he dug deeper. There! It peeked out from beneath layers of pink and gold, blue and copper, red and purple. He pulled it free, though it took effort; no matter how slick the emerald satin was against his fingers, it still clung to the bed's coverlet and seemed glued beneath the heap of discarded ball gowns. _This_ one didn't puff out in the shoulders, nor did it stick out for several feet from her rear. He remembered its rustle as she'd moved against him in one of the ridiculously pompous Kirkwall pavanes that hadn't truly allowed him to enjoy the feel of her. The first party, if he remembered right, when Seneschal Bran had sent her scurrying for the sort of gown she'd never wanted to own. _"A Champion must not wear armor to such functions."_ Most of the men had ogled what the low neckline had revealed, or what the dress' folds accentuated, but to him, she'd been the living embodiment of Andraste.

"Here, take this."

"You think we'll have many occasions to warrant such a thing in Ferelden?"

"Is an occasion required to for you to put this on? I'd hoped you'd find other reasons."

She raised an eyebrow.

"And if not an occasion, then a reminder."

"I have too many memories of that time. Sometimes in duplicate and triplicate. Fortunately, much of it is blurry."

"Just how much did you drink when I wasn't with you?"

"Ugh! My head spins and my gut churns when I think back. Are you saying you want me to wear this?"

"Andra."

"Maker's breath! You could just ask, you know."

He folded the dress with more care than he'd ever shown Danarius' robes. She unlatched the trunk, a sardonic twist in her lips. She sniffed as he moved her quill and inkwell, and giggled when he wrapped both in a gown he knew she especially hated. Puff-sleeved and pompous, the stiff velvet crackled as it battled its relegation to such a lowly task. At least its deep blue matched the color of the small puddle of ink Andra hadn't bothered to dump out. Her sniff turned to a full rich laugh when he shoved the despoiled dress on top of her Ferelden commoner togs. The green glory, he laid with reverence on top.

"I thought humans wouldn't be caught dead unshod."

"I'm taking these," she lifted one suede-encased foot, "and I do have a full suit of armor."

"Which you haven't packed."

"Which I'll wear. It isn't as if we don't have another chest or two of yours to foist on our Templar escort."

"Two chests. You think I own that much? Tell me, isn't there anything else you'd take with you to remember?"

"What's worth remembering?" She pressed her lips against his cheek. "All I want to remember of that time is you. Do I need more of a memento?"

"Where did most of these dresses come from? I don't recall you spending much time _conscious_."

A bitter laugh. Too bitter. "My dear dwarven assistant sent Boy for me the days the dressmaker came. Have you ever tried to remain asleep with a massive mabari parked on your chest, slurping away at your nose?" Boy whined at his name and nosed her hip. "Fortunately, you don't need to be truly conscious to stand stock still while said dressmaker tangles you in his measuring tape."

"You never chose the dresses?"

"That was all Bodahn, Andraste bless his soul. Now, him, I'll miss. And Aveline…"

Not Bethany. Not her sister. "You're forgetting someone."

"You think I forgot Beth? I meant to ask…" She turned away, her voice trembling. "Do you mind if I ask her to come along?"

Likely any other man would have been warmed more by her compliment, but he knew she'd never understand how what she said so casually and took for granted could shock him. His _opinion_, his _wishes_ mattered to her. He stared at her as she trembled; he still couldn't accept that she'd listen, especially when it came to _family_.

"And if I said no?"

Her eyes widened, stricken, but her mouth relaxed at his smile.

"I suppose I'd piss and moan for a few weeks, make barbed comments mentioning how paranoid you are about mages. I'd probably cry a lot, and even more if you asked me what was wrong. Maybe I'd get over it in a few months, long after it was too late to do anything about it, but…"

He silenced her with his lips, squeezed her close and gripped her hips. She wriggled against him, her hands tangled in his hair, and she explored his tongue with vigor. She was more than warm; her fire seared him as if she'd exploded into an inferno. Whatever warmth he'd felt at her question burned away to ash in the sudden surge of purifying light as he melted into her. One might call such a blazing, "love," in its consuming fury, or one might think it the gift of something Beyond. Yet love itself seemed to pale in comparison. Perhaps it didn't matter as he breasts gave against his chest and as he grew against her. Perhaps the only thing that mattered was that _she_ was there, as much his as he'd always be hers. The mabari let out a sharp yip and he swore beneath his breath as she broke away.

"I don't pretend to understand why you, well… but you're welcome to do that whenever you wish." She brushed invisible wrinkles from her jacket, and gave him a sheepish grin.

"I should hope so."

"You're trying to divert me, aren't you?" she asked, her eyes suddenly clenched shut. "You don't… You're going to say…"

"That listening to you whine for months on end would be a dreadful annoyance."

"What?"

"It would become tiresome rather quickly, much like the blood mage's ceaseless prodding."

Her eyes opened only slowly as she took his meaning. "You mean, yes? I…"

"Bethany is your family, Andra, and we could do far worse for company."

"I never thought you would… I mean, I thought I'd have to wheedle or cajole or…" She wrapped her arms around him. "And you've made me amble like Merrill."

"Wheedling and cajoling. Then you wouldn't have accepted a 'no.'" Her dagger sank deep. "Why waste time asking what I thought?"

She went limp, slumping against the bedpost, and her arms dropped defeated to her sides. "Maker's breath! I don't understand you sometimes. Did you think I wouldn't make you _work_ for that 'no?' If 'no' was the answer, that is."

"I… er…" He cleared his throat as heat rose in his cheeks. He didn't dare meet her gaze. "Why did you ask me? Bethany is your sister, and I'm…"

"Why wouldn't I?"

To say anything would make him sound more a fool than he already did. She reached for his hand and stroked the lyrium lines Danarius had carved into his palm and the underside of his fingers. Her touch cleansed the itching foulness that seemed always to crawl beneath his skin. A lick of bright flame, and the magic taint vanished for the moment in the wake of her finger's tracery.

"Fenris, of course I'm going to ask. You're half of us."

_Us._ He brought her hand to his lips, though he would have gladly applied them in any of an endless number of other places if it hadn't been for the pile of clothing or the Templar or his overwhelming need to look at her, to take her in and let that flash of fusing take him over again. Instead, he brushed her hair back and gestured to a small strip of dress-free coverlet at the foot of the bed. _His_ consent wasn't the consent she should have worried about. She raised an eyebrow but kept hold of his hand as she perched on the footboard. He settled next to her.

"Would Bethany accept?"

"Is there a reason she wouldn't?" Perhaps he was more of "us" than he'd thought; she sounded just like him.

"She didn't wish to leave Kirkwall for Ferelden's Circle. Do you think she'd feel differently now?"

"Why are you asking this? Is there something you're not telling me?"

"Andra, you don't recall how attached she seemed to her friends?"

"She has a chance to be _free_ again. Why wouldn't she take it? I can understand the transfer—from one prison, to another, plusher one—but to refuse freedom? Do you really think she would?"

He shook his head as he locked gazes with her, her eyes liquid. "That's a question only Bethany can answer."

"You don't think she'll accept, do you?"

"I cannot say for sure. Only…"

"Yes, only Beth. I know." She stood. "Let's just get out of here. I don't think I can abide this place a moment longer."

She passed the closed door without a second glance, her trunk hefted beneath one arm. Even with two additional dresses, it likely weighed less than her armor. She'd begun to work her way down the stairs when he realized she had no intention of stopping. He'd never seen the interior of the room, and Andra had always shuddered whenever she passed it. Surely there must have been a memento or two she'd wish of her mother's, beyond the pendant she never shed even while bathing. He sniffed at his own sudden urge to find out just what the door hid; what insights did the room provide about her through her mother?

"You're still not opening the door? It's been three years since she died."

"I can't."

"If you walk out now, without a single glance, you'll be haunted for the rest of your days."

"I can live with that."

"Andra, you've put off facing her death long enough."

"I've faced it plenty." She took another two steps toward the door as he grunted. "Fine. You want me to 'face' it? Let's just get this over with."

She groaned as she rested the chest on a stair above.

"I hope I don't regret this." Her eyes had turned that unpleasant shade of crimson again.

He helped her up and slipped an arm around her. She straightened against him as he pressed his lips to her cheek.

"Andra, I'm here."

"I know," she said. "As always."

She inhaled deep as they paused before the barrier she'd never seen fit to remove. With a trembling hand, she reached for the knob.


End file.
